The First Date
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: A Johnlock. Sherlock has been "dead" for about a year and a half and John is having a hard time accepting it, trying to wrestle with his possible feelings for him. Sherlock finally comes home and the reunion is more intimate than either expected.
1. Date 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Rated M for sexual content, but not XXX status.**

* * *

John Watson could not figure out for the life of him why he was still living at Baker Street.

He also couldn't explain to you why he had never moved or cleaned anything in the flat unless it had started moulding.

But most of all, he really couldn't tell you why he was so completely broken up about the loss of Sherlock Holmes.

Of course he was upset. Sherlock was his closest—and probably only at this point—friend and he had watched him jump off a building. Yes, it was normal for him to be shaken and for him to be sad. Except it had been more than a year since it happened and still John was haunted by his dead friend, missing everything about him. The oddest part about it though was that John knew that his late friend Sherlock Holmes was an egotistical arsehole. He took John's computer without asking—well, he never asked to do _anything_—and commanded John to get things for him or go on cases for him when it wasn't interesting enough for Sherlock to bother putting on trousers. He was a bloody know-it-all in the worst sort of way and part of the time John had wanted to sock him anyway. The man had never shown an ounce of affection towards John in their—

No, that was a lie. He had shown affection. It was infrequent, but not nonexistent. It wasn't fair for John to say that he wasn't sure if Sherlock even liked him because he knew that he did. John had been Sherlock's best mate the same way that Sherlock was John's.

It was just a marvel to John, when he tried to think about it, that all of Sherlock's bad qualities seemed so endearing when Sherlock was no longer around. He would've paid anything to grab Sherlock's phone from his coat or go on a case for him while he sat in a sheet at the flat.

And John had nightmares. They reminded him of his nightmares after the war, back when he used a cane—Sherlock was the one that fixed that. In the nightmares, Sherlock would sometimes call his mobile and tell him that he was a fraud—which was a bloody lie and John knew it—or he would watch Sherlock jump off that building all over again. Then he would wake up sweating, wishing he hadn't been so easily tricked. Maybe he could have stopped it from happening.

He still tried to figure through why Sherlock would kill himself. The man worshiped his own intelligence, for Christ's sake. He never seemed the type to kill himself. Yes, Moriarty had destroyed his career and his reputation, which Sherlock was very unhappy about. He was married to his work, after all. But John figured he'd compose a few sad songs on his violin and then think of some brilliant plan to fix it all like he always did. Making Sherlock feel that hopeless, like he had run out of options, seemed impossible to John, but Moriarty had done it.

The thing that scared him most was what Ella had said. He was seeing Ella again since it all happened, and she would ask him to recount his memories of Sherlock sometimes. One time when she did this, very recently, she had replied, "Have you considered that Sherlock wasn't just your friend at all?" I had gotten very angry at that point—honestly, everyone had said things like that about the two of them and it was very annoying—but she had only said that the only way to conquer these feelings was to know exactly what the feelings were.

He didn't want to think about it, but she had forced him to. Sherlock had been his friend. That was it.

But was it? In those tense moments where Sherlock would say something almost kind and John would find himself caught in his friend's jewel-blue eyes, was that just friendly behaviour? The way he missed Sherlock so terribly that his chest ached and he had to try to smile and act normally, was that just the consequence of a lost friend?

He hadn't gone on a single date since it happened, even when women asked, which they sometimes did. He didn't see his rugby lads when they invited him out. He hardly did anything except go into work and sit around, staring at Sherlock's empty chair.

Though he and Lestrade went out to a café a few times, just to chat. So had he and Mycroft. They tried to keep it to only small talk, but even Mycroft looked just a little concerned about John. John had been affected very deeply by the death of his friend, his partner in crime solving, his flat-mate.

Maybe too deeply affected?

He was sitting in the front room, recovering from his latest dream. It wasn't so bad as the other nightmares but somehow it made it impossible for him to try to get back to sleep, even though it was three in the morning.

It had been him, at the graveyard, begging Sherlock not to be dead. He had dreamed that Sherlock had been watching from behind a tree, not really dead at all.

It was ridiculous. Now John was pretending that Sherlock was alive just to make himself feel better, which meant he was really going entirely mad. Sherlock was gone and John was just going to have to get over it—

That was when he could have sworn he heard the door open downstairs. Couldn't have been Mrs. Hudson, she wouldn't have been awake. John looked around for the nearest weapon and saw a metal pole. Good enough. Why Sherlock had kept this thing around, he had no clue, but if there was some sort of robber coming up, then it would be good enough for protection.

The knob turned and through the door came…

But it couldn't be.

"I'm still asleep. Of course," John muttered, setting down the pipe and sitting in his chair. "This is a new one."

Sherlock Holmes was standing in the doorway, his eyes scanning John in that way he so often did, like he was reading every inch of him. It was impossible to tell what Sherlock thought of what he saw usually, but this time there were obvious signs of disapproval in his face.

"When's the last time you slept, John?"

"Not even a realistic dream," John mused aloud. "Sherlock doesn't care if I've slept or not."

Sherlock came forward and leaned in front of John. "It's really me, John. You aren't sleeping. I'm alive."

John stared at Sherlock. This was a very realistic dream.

"Come on, John, think," he continued. "You aren't nearly creative enough to make this up and you know it."

John was beginning to dare to hope, which he really didn't want to do. It would be even worse when he woke up this time, because he'll have been convinced that Sherlock was alive. It was quite a cruel dream. If it was a dream at all.

"Well, if you're really alive, why would you have kept away for so long?" John inquired.

"Moran. I had to get rid of him before it was safe for me to see anyone. He had to think I was dead or he'd have killed you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade."

"He—you—" John was fumbling, because it made sense. Then suddenly Sherlock got up, backing up a few steps. It took John a moment to realize what Sherlock already had—that John was furious. He had picked up the rod again.

"You aren't really going to hit me with that, are you?" Sherlock asked in a bored voice. "I know it's hard, but use your brain. It's really me."

John wasn't having trouble believing it was Sherlock anymore. Maybe he was asleep, he still wasn't sure, but if it really was him standing there, John really did want to hit him. "You mean to tell me that I've been distraught about your death this whole time and you've been off having a good old time, solving a case like always? You couldn't have called, just once, so I knew you were alive?"

"Distraught?" Sherlock repeated. "Come now, John, I'm sure that's not true. You were always angry with me anyway."

"I keep having nightmares about you jumping off the bloody building and I have to try so hard to—damn you, Sherlock! You've been alive the whole—" John dropped the rod and stood, walking over to his friend quickly and hugging him. He was a little surprised when Sherlock didn't try to push him away. He just patted his shoulder gingerly.

"John, honestly, I'm…" he choked on the word for a moment in irritation, and then tried again. "I'm sorry. I just didn't think you could fake it well enough to be believable."

"I'm not a total imbecile, Sherlock," John said irritably, letting go.

"What on earth gave you that idea?"

"Why did I miss you at all?" John grumbled, but he couldn't stop soaking in the sight of him. His memory had been fading, just a little, over time. He didn't remember the color of his eyes right or the exact shape of his cheekbones.

"If it's any consolation, I missed you too," Sherlock said quietly.

John's mouth almost fell open at the comment. Sherlock had apologized and said something about missing John, all in the span of five minutes. If this really was Sherlock, he was acting very odd.

"You missed me. Right."

"Honestly, I did. It was dreadfully dull without you around. I didn't get to have any fun at all."

John glared at his friend, and then hit him in the face. Sherlock was pushed into the wall, but didn't fall over. John noticed with dismay that he had again avoided his mouth and nose. He didn't even mean to. "Well, I'm sorry things were so _boring_ for you while I was over here mourning your death!"

Sherlock just stood there, that look on his face that was absolutely impossible to interpret. "I probably deserved that," he said.

"Yes, you did!" But the anger was flowing out of John as quickly as it had come. Sherlock was only doing it to protect him, after all, and now he was here. John was almost frightened by how happy it made him to realise that. "God, I really missed you, Sherlock."

"I missed you too," Sherlock repeated. "Not only because it was boring," he added.

John could never explain to you what drove him to do what he did next. John came forward, grabbed both sides of Sherlock's face, and kissed him right on the mouth. When John realised what he'd done, he backed up and sat in his chair. Sherlock was just silently looking at John, examining him again. He was actually surprised, which didn't happen very often.

"I didn't expect that," Sherlock said, the shock obvious in his voice.

John put his head in his hands. He was horrified with himself. Ella had gotten him all worked up, that's what it was. He didn't want to… to kiss Sherlock. Not even if it hadn't been so bad… even if it hadn't been bad at all. "I don't know why I did that either. I'm sorry."

"No, that's not what I meant." This made John look up again. "I mean I didn't expect… kissing is completely pointless… but that…" he was rambling, something he did sometimes, except this time John could understand what he was talking about. Sherlock would never have thought kissing had any point to it at all. Only Sherlock seemed to be implying… "Do that again," he said, making it sound like a command.

"What?" John yelped.

"Just… just an experiment."

Initially, John just wanted to say no, but looking into Sherlock's eyes, he couldn't. He had never been able to refuse Sherlock anything. He got up again, feeling a little shaky, and stood right in front of Sherlock, whose face didn't change one bit from its look of determination. He reached his hand up and put it on his cheek, experimentally rubbing his thumb on Sherlock's cheek bone. _Sharp enough to cut someone_, he remembered. Sherlock just looked down at John, blinking. He seemed lost for words, which was different for him. Then he let his lips touch Sherlock's again, except it lingered just a little longer that time and his eyes were closed. When he opened them again, he was very surprised about what he saw. There was this heat in Sherlock's eyes he had never seen before.

"There's a squeezing feeling in my gut," Sherlock said quietly to himself. "Could be nerves, but it probably isn't. But there's no point to DNA swapping. None whatsoever. So why…"

"Why did that feel good?" John suggested tentatively, only just realising that his hand was still on Sherlock's face. He was about to move it, but Sherlock's hand flashed up, holding it in position. John was utterly silent because he didn't have any idea what to say.

Had Ella been right? Obviously the butterflies in his stomach or the burning in his skin would say that she was. John, looking up at Sherlock and realising just how much he missed him… how much he needed him… would say that she was too. So yes, maybe John had feelings for Sherlock. But Sherlock wasn't capable of having feelings for him too, was he? For Sherlock's skin was hot under John's hand too and he had locked eyes with John and would not let John look away. He even looked a little nervous. He never seemed the type that was able to love—but it wasn't love, of course, John thought hastily. Couldn't be love.

Even if it was, Sherlock thought that sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side, that love was a great disadvantage. Sherlock would never love anyone.

So why was he looking at John that way?

"What, do you need me to try again for the sake of science?" John muttered just for something to say.

"Yes, actually I do," Sherlock said. "Except, this time, not for science."

John felt his breath catch. "Well, for what then?" John asked weakly.

"For me," he replied. So there was the great Sherlock Holmes, leaning up against a wall with a bruise forming on his cheek, asking John Watson to kiss him. John couldn't believe it was happening. He also couldn't believe how quickly he obeyed the request. In a moment their bodies were crushed together, Sherlock between John and the wall, and this time Sherlock was kissing him back.

John had never felt something so right in his life. He couldn't deny anymore that he had feelings for Sherlock. The way his whole body was burning with desire, he obviously felt something. Something strong.

And Sherlock was feeling something too, because when John slipped his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock did the same. Sherlock didn't seem sure where to touch or what to do, which John thought was endearing. He'd been called The Virgin before. It was obviously true.

Though this was new to John too, being with a man. It was different in a thrilling sort of way.

John pulled himself closer to Sherlock once more and John heard the first muffled moan escape from Sherlock's lips. Suddenly Sherlock's arms weren't as unsure as they wrapped around John ever tighter.

John let go of Sherlock, backing up so there was a few inches between them. They were breathing hard and Sherlock definitely had a fire in his eyes. John took Sherlock's hand and began to walk back into the flat.

"Where're we going?" Sherlock asked shakily. It was odd for John to see Sherlock so unsteady, almost looking scared.

"Just come on," John said. Sherlock followed him and they went into John's room. Now Sherlock really did look fearful, but he shut the door behind him and just looked at John. He came forward and started undoing the buttons on Sherlock's always too-tight shirt, throwing it on the floor unceremoniously. Sherlock stood there for a moment, and then surprised John once more by starting to peel off John's sweater. Then they were kissing again and they fell back onto John's bed, exploring one another tentatively.

"I'm really glad you're alive," John said at one point, when they were under the covers, naked, and just looking at each other.

"And I'm glad to be here," Sherlock said, leaning forward and kissing him. It was the first time he had initiated anything that night and John understood what that meant.

"I don't sleep with people on the first date," John said.

Sherlock smirked. "I'm feeling rather tired anyway," he said, getting up.

"You're going to your room?" John asked.

Sherlock looked down at him. "Would you like me to stay?"

"You're welcome to. If you'd like."

Sherlock lay back down on the pillow and shut his eyes, saying nothing more. John didn't mind. He fell asleep and had no nightmares.

* * *

John woke up to his empty bed in dismay. Of course it had all been a dream. A frightening one, because it made John realise that he did have feelings for his dead friend. Ella said it would be easier to handle the emotions once he knew what emotions he was handling, but John wasn't so sure. He didn't want to get up, but he knew he couldn't stay in bed all day, so he threw off the covers and stood.

That was when he saw the clothes on the floor. His own sweater and jeans, but also a black shirt and trousers. He also had no clothes on, when usually he slept in pyjamas.

No, it couldn't be true. Could it? John's pulse quickened as he threw on his jeans and went into the front room, and there was Sherlock, on John's computer in just a sheet.

"You changed your password to 'Holmes'? Terrible choice, really," he said.

"You're actually here."

"Of course I am," Sherlock said, not turning from the computer. "Don't you remember last night? I certainly do."

"I just thought it may have been a dream or something."

"That would be a very odd dream, John."

"Dreams are often odd."

"My dreams are in binary code, usually, but they are quite normal."

"Of course they are," John said, rolling his eyes and sitting in his chair. He looked back to Sherlock and then Sherlock was looking at him too, a kind warmth in his eyes that John really had never seen before. He stood up and sat on the arm of John's chair.

"I think I may have been wrong."

"About what?" John asked, afraid that Sherlock had decided that the actions of the night before had been wrong and that it would never happen again.

"Maybe love isn't always a disadvantage." John looked up at Sherlock, who leaned down and let his lips brush John's, just for a moment. "I haven't decided yet though. Maybe it still is. We'll have to go on the second date to figure that out, I suppose."

John only smiled. A second date sounded good to him.


	2. Date 2, Part 1

Sherlock hadn't bothered to leave the house the entire week. John didn't mind just having him around or anything, but he had tried to convince Sherlock to at least tell Mycroft and Lestrade that he was alive, which he refused to do.

"Actually, I'm quite busy at the moment," he said the first time John suggested it, as he sat in a chair with his knees tucked in, telling the telly that their view on the news was actually incorrect.

"I'm sure Mycroft can figure it out on his own. Brother rivalry. Can't tell him myself," he said the next day.

"Then can I tell him?"

"No, no, none of that. He'll figure it out."

Then the day after that, he said, "Lestrade was stupid enough to think I'm a fraud. I mean really. It's like all you people don't have anything in your skulls at all."

"Am I part of that blanket statement then?" John asked.

"No offence or anything."

"Right," John said, leaving for work.

He wasn't rushing it because, like he said, he didn't mind having Sherlock around.

Most of the time.

You see, Sherlock was a man that got bored very easily, and when he got bored, he did… interesting things. He had left bullet holes in the wall when he was bored once.

After being home three days, his boredom got the best of him. John came home from the grocery, whistling to himself. He had been unhappy for so long that it felt odd to be so giddy. He could hear Sherlock talking to him as soon as he opened the door downstairs. Sherlock had a tendency to talk to John even when he had left the house.

"This looks good, right John? I think it'll be stable soon. Just a few more layers…"

John didn't like the sound of that. He opened the door and walked in to a peculiar scene—the type of scene one usually walked in on if the room was inhabited by Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was only wearing a sheet again, but that was normal. He hadn't put clothes on all week. The weird part was that the flat was full of trash. There was a heap of it on some newspaper and Sherlock seemed to be making things out of it with plastic wrap and super glue.

"What on earth are you doing?" John asked.

"I already told you."

"I wasn't actually here, Sherlock. I've been gone for an hour."

"No, you—oh never mind. I soiled my chair with some coffee, so I'm making a new one that isn't soiled." The thing he was working on was indeed a chair made of trash.

"Since trash isn't soiled," John said. Sherlock didn't reply. "But what about all these other things?" John noticed a cup made of trash with water in it. It miraculously didn't leak. Honestly, John had only been gone an hour. The things that man could do…

"I wanted to see what else I could make with it. Anything, of course. You just have to have the brain power, thus why nobody else thought of it before."

"Why did you make it out of trash though?"

"One man's trash is another man's treasure, my dear Watson."

John rolled his eyes. "You need to get out of this flat."

"I'm just fine, thank you."

"You're making things with trash."

"What about it?"

John sighed. "At least tell Lestrade. You don't have to tell Mycroft."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Then can I politely request that you tell your _friend_ that you aren't _dead_?"

Sherlock seemed to consider this. "I'll think about it."

"That's all I ask," John grumbled, going to put away the food. He was partly just glad that he had to buy food for another person. He looked up at Sherlock and was surprised to see that he had stopped building his garbage-chair and was sitting in his "soiled" chair, staring at John with an intimidatingly intense look on his face. "Do I have something on my face?" John asked.

"Just observing. Please, continue."

John decided to just ignore it and continue putting the groceries away, and when he finished, he sat in his chair and looked at Sherlock who was still watching him with narrowed eyes.

"You're much better than you were before," he said.

"Yes, I'd imagine so. You aren't dead."

"Yes, but it's more than that. Did you go on a date or something?"

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was very stupid sometimes for being so smart. "Yes, actually, I did. And I've been waiting to go on another."

"Good then," he said, going back over to building his new chair.

"I'm talking about you, you know."

Sherlock stopped again. "Oh, are you?"

"Yes, I was."

"You've been waiting for another date?"

"Kind of, yes." Sherlock didn't speak. "But you refuse to leave the house," John continued.

"Thus far, none of your reasons to leave have been at all appealing."

"So if I think of an appealing enough idea, you'll but some clothes on?"

"Think of an idea first, then maybe."

John went into Sherlock's room and grabbed out his usual type of outfit, a tight shirt, trousers, and a suit jacket. He took his long coat off the hanger and brought it all out into the front room.

"Put them on."

"I didn't hear any ideas."

"You're going somewhere with me. Isn't that good enough?"

Sherlock looked up at John, his face blank.

"And it doesn't involve Lestrade or my _dear_ brother?"

"Just you and I," John confirmed.

He was quiet for a moment longer. Then he stood, took the clothes silently, and went back into his room. John smiled even though he wasn't sure why. Maybe because just being with John was a good enough reason for Sherlock to put on clothes when being in Buckingham Palace hadn't been.

Sherlock came into the front room looking very much the same as he usually did, in dark dress clothes, a blue scarf, and his coat with the collar dramatically pulled up. His unruly black hair was tidier than it had been in a few days. The bruise that John had given him was mostly gone, for John hadn't hit him very hard.

"We're going then?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded and went down the stairs, Sherlock following. John started walking down the street.

"Aren't we getting a cab?"

"No," John called, not stopping to explain. After a few seconds Sherlock caught up again.

"What if someone recognises me?"

"You don't have the hat. They might not."

"I hate that hat."

"I know you do."

"So why aren't we calling a cab?"

"Because we're walking."

"Where are we going?"

"Nowhere in particular."

Sherlock was quiet. "What's the point in that?"

"To enjoy each other's company."

"Is that what people do on dates? No wonder I've never bothered to go on one."

John didn't bother to reply. Sherlock groaned.

"What?" John asked.

"I don't get any of this."

John chuckled and stopped walking, turning to him. "There's nothing to get, Sherlock. We're walking. We walk all the time."

"To get places," Sherlock said. He sighed dramatically, looking at the sky. He was such a child sometimes. "I'm trying to do this your way, but I have no idea what I'm doing. I've never done anything like this before. Before I met you, I only kept people around if they had some use to me. In fact, before I met you, I never bothered to care about anyone at all."

"Well this is a start," John said. "You're telling me what you're actually thinking for once."

Sherlock almost smiled. "Yes, I guess so."

John looked at the ground. "What would you feel comfortable doing? Tell me what you want to do."

"I thought we were walking."

"You don't want to do that, so tell me what you want to do."

He squinted at John. "You always let me dictate everything we do. Why do you do that?"

"Because… I don't know. When you care about someone, you try to do things their way."

His eyes narrowed further. "Then let's walk."

John smiled. Neither of them really bothered to talk, they kind of just walked for a long time.

"I guess this isn't terrible," Sherlock said. "It's still pointless though."

"You thought kissing was pointless too."

"It is. That doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it."

"How is getting closer to people pointless? Honestly, Sherlock, I don't know why I'm even trying if you aren't capable of giving it a chance. We might as well just go home."

Sherlock groaned again and grabbed John's hand, tugging him into the nearest ally. John leaned against the wall and Sherlock started pacing.

"What am I supposed to do? I'm trying. What else do you want?"

"It just didn't seem like you were trying was all. If you are, then that's all I want."

He stopped walking and looked at John. "That sweater looks nice with your eyes."

John laughed. "Does it?"

"Yes."

"You're impossible," John chuckled and Sherlock grumbled in frustration. John walked up to him and rested his hand on his cheek again. He'd been wanting to all week. "You're doing fine, Sherlock, honestly. I'm only laughing because this is so surreal."

"Why is that?"

"You trying to do what I want. It's unprecedented. And you've been asking me a lot of questions today, which is a little weird too. You always seemed incapable of doing anything like this. You were married to your work and you had no interest in any sort of relationship, but now you're trying and I really appreciate it. I know things will never be like the type of relationships that I've been in before, but I'm okay with that because I care about you a lot."

"A relationship. Is that what this is?"

"I don't know. I thought we had to finish the second date before you knew if love was a disadvantage."

"Of course. So shall we walk aimlessly some more just to get my shoes dirty?"

John smiled and took Sherlock's hand. "Why don't we go home?"

"And do what?"

John's whole body felt electrified just thinking of the possibilities. "We'll think of something."

"Since your pulse just quickened, I'd say you already have an idea."

"Did it? I think you're imagining it," John said.

"And your pupils are dilated."

"It's dark."

"Trying to tell me I'm wrong. That's adorable." John didn't stay anything, just stood there and looked at Sherlock. "I thought we were going home to do whatever is making your heart beat faster that isn't what I was guessing," Sherlock prompted when John didn't move.

John shook his head and they started back towards the flat.


	3. Date 2, Part 2

"You've been very quiet," Sherlock said when 221B was in view.

John was a ball of nerves, actually. He had been absently thinking about what might happen between he and Sherlock if they got intimate again all week, but now it might actually happen.

_Might_ being because John didn't want to initiate it this time. Sherlock was obviously uncomfortable with the entire situation and John hated seeing him that way. Sherlock wasn't one to be nervous or confused the way he had been the whole night. John didn't want to rush anything, even if his blood was burning with excitement in his veins at the very thought of touching—

But he wouldn't do anything about it unless Sherlock did. He had already decided that and he was going to stick to it.

They walked into the flat and John sat in the chair and turned on the telly.

"Porn costs money on that," Sherlock said.

"Who said anything about porn?"

"Your dilated pupils."

"I'm going to watch the news, actually."

Sherlock sat down and immediately started telling the news caster that she was wrong about some case and John just smiled.

"I want a sandwich. It's Wednesday, so it's probably about time to eat something," Sherlock eventually said.

John got up and started to make him one, even though Sherlock didn't ask that time. Or command. Whatever you wanted to call it. He brought it to Sherlock and he took it and ate it, no thank you or anything. That's just how he was.

"This woman doesn't know anything, honestly. Look at the lacerations on that man's head. He's obviously been…" Sherlock was saying about the news. John found himself reviewing the night, thinking that even if nothing at all happened, it had been successful. Sherlock was trying to open up. John couldn't ask for any more than that. A kiss would be nice, of course, since John had been resisting doing it for days, but he would live.

John thought back on the week in general. Was Sherlock acting different at all? He was doing odd experiments and anonymously solving cases for people online. That was normal. He didn't bother to get dressed, and though usually he would have worn his blue robe and some pyjamas instead of a sheet, that was normal too. But also, John thought he caught Sherlock staring at him once or twice. Sherlock stared at people often, but it seemed different than the way he usually did.

And there was the one moment when John left to go to his room and Sherlock was on his computer, reading. Then John was about to walk back in and he found Sherlock was staring at the ground with the most peculiar look on his face… he almost looked sad. For once he wasn't talking like he thought John was still in the room. And then he touched his own face… almost as if remembering.

John figured it was just Sherlock being Sherlock and he was interpreting it entirely wrong, but he liked to think that he wasn't.

John glanced up at Sherlock out of habit and noticed that he was looking at John instead of the television.

"This is very frustrating," Sherlock said.

"What is?"

"Not knowing."

"Not knowing _what_?"

Sherlock scanned John for three seconds before saying, "You're wearing one of your nicer sweaters, probably one that Harry gave you, which means that tonight is important to you. I can smell just the slightest bit of cologne, hinting the same thing. I can hear your pulse from over here and you keep twitching and shifting your legs, meaning you have been thinking about something sexual, whether it was subconscious or not. You keep glancing at me, obviously meaning you're expecting something of me."

"Alright… what's your point?"

"Even with all of that, you're just sitting there."

"Yes."

"So why?"

"I thought you knew everything." John was kind of entertained about the fact that Sherlock was clueless for once.

"I know things that make sense. Human sexuality doesn't make any sense at all."

"Probably right. Well, I'm going to bed."

Sherlock glared. "You are?"

"Yes. Goodnight," John said, going to his room.

* * *

Sherlock was left sitting in his chair, staring at John's receding back.

How on earth had all of this happened? Sherlock had divorced himself from feelings for a reason, a good one. They were just a distraction from what was really important, a way to get blackmailed. Moriarty only succeeded as much as he did because Sherlock had been weak enough to grow affectionate towards people. How human of him, to let himself care so much. On one thing he and Mycroft could agree: Caring was a not an advantage.

And now, here he was, an uncomfortable longing dully thudding in his brain, his entire being trying to pull him towards John's shut door.

While Sherlock was gone, he missed John terribly. More than he was willing to admit. He never thought he could feel so strongly towards someone else. It was nearly dizzying. Then seeing John again a week before had thrilled him much more than he expected. The thought that John had been in pain because of Sherlock's deception actually bothered him slightly.

And when John had kissed him… it was indescribable. And for Sherlock, things weren't "indescribable" very often. It was like some part of his being that he hadn't known existed was suddenly ignited… except even that description didn't quite explain how Sherlock had felt. Somehow, for the first time in his life, the idea of sharing himself with another person was attractive.

John was sitting in his room. There was no way he had fallen asleep, not with how tense his body had been. It would take at least thirty minutes for his body to relax enough to even think of sleep, and even after that it was likely his mind would be too active to sleep for another hour or so. So Sherlock had a choice. He could sit out in this front room and watch the news reporter make a complete fool of herself as she described a murder that Sherlock knew was obviously a suicide… or he could go into John's room. John had gone away in the first place because he figured that Sherlock had no clue whatsoever what he had been implying. He wouldn't expect Sherlock to walk in, that much was certain. Sherlock knew he was not mistaken in his assumption that John would be pleased to see him.

And Sherlock Holmes was surprised to find that he was scared. Being startled and afraid at the same time… yes, Sherlock would have to get used to all these unfamiliar feelings.

If he went in there, he was putting himself in a situation that he had never been in before. Not only that, but it was a compromising situation, one where he was vulnerable. One where John would be the one calling the shots because Sherlock had no clue at all what he was doing.

The most astounding thing about that was he didn't mind. Usually, he wouldn't trust anyone with his own body. He wouldn't even trust a dentist to clean his teeth properly. But John… Sherlock trusted John with his life. He always had.

He jumped up from his chair and began to pace because his mind was too active to keep still. He had never been so aware that John wasn't in the room. Even when he had been gone, pretending to be dead, he would mutter to John. Now, every time John left the room, he absolutely knew he was gone. It felt empty. He would sometimes talk to him anyway, just because he felt better pretending he was there than feeling the void when he knew that he was gone.

That had to mean something. He'd never wanted a person never to leave him, but he felt that way now about John.

He didn't know exactly what he was feeling, but he knew he was incapable of ignoring it and that if he did ignore it, John would be upset, and he didn't want that.

And so he slowly removed his jacket, scarf, and shoes, draping them on his chair, and started towards John's room. He was uncomfortable with how fast and hard his heart was beating on the way there. He was uncomfortable with all of it.

But part of him just needed to _know_. All of this was so hard for him to understand and he hated not understanding.

_Think of it as an experiment_, Sherlock told himself. And he opened the door to John's room.

* * *

John was having trouble falling asleep.

He and Sherlock had all the time in the world to get closer. He didn't mind taking it slow.

But what scared him was that maybe Sherlock had officially decided that it wasn't worth the trouble. And if he decided that, would they just be friends like they used to be, or would Sherlock decide he didn't want John around at all? He didn't know what he would do if that happened.

He was still trying to understand his feelings, because they seemed to get stronger every day. He knew that Sherlock wasn't really any different than before. He was still the high-functioning sociopath he always has been. But John somehow loved even the bad things about him. Sherlock made him think, brought excitement to his life and made him look at the world in a completely different way. And John liked to think he brought Sherlock off his pedestal a little bit, humanised him. But did Sherlock _want_ to be humanised? He liked to be separate from other people, to be like an alien in a crowd of ordinary Joes.

John tried to stop thinking so much, but he couldn't. He was just trying to shuffle around and find a comfortable spot when the door opened. Sherlock was standing there in his dark purple shirt and black trousers, a completely unreadable expression on his face as usual. John sat up and looked at Sherlock inquisitively, but he just shut the door and came and sat on the bed, looking at John. He looked conflicted, maybe even a little upset, John realised.

"What is it?" John asked, subconsciously reaching for Sherlock's hand. He realised what he was going and was going to pull his arm back, but Sherlock took it in his and turned it over, looking at it like he was some sort of palm reader, tracing the lines.

"I've been thinking," he said.

"You do that quite often," John said.

Sherlock smirked. "Yes, I suppose I do. I just meant, I was thinking about this. Us."

John suddenly felt nervous. "Alright…" he prompted.

"I never wanted to care about people. It makes it hard to concentrate on important details when you are busy worrying about other people."

John's heart sank. "Right, of course, I understand."

"Why don't you let me finish, John?"

"Sorry. Go on."

"What I was _going_ to say was that I never wanted that before… but I care about you a lot, John. So what I decided was that even if love is a disadvantage, I don't think I care." Sherlock looked up from John's hand and looked at John as if he were a very complex message he was trying to decode. "What on earth have you done to me?"

John smiled and was trying to think of an answer to that question when Sherlock scooted closer, a determined look in his eyes. He slowly reached both hands up, putting them on John's cheeks. John found himself unable to do anything but try to breathe evenly. And when Sherlock's lips collided with his own, it was with much more force than John expected. They fell back on the bed and Sherlock was on top of him—this surprised John at first, but Sherlock _did_ like to be in control of situations.

It didn't take long before they'd lost their clothes to the floor all over again, but this time they weren't hidden under a sheet. John was kind of in a daze. He had fully convinced himself that Sherlock was not interested in a relationship when Sherlock came in, all fiery eyed again. The things he'd imagined all week, kissing him again, not just on his lips but all over, being able to feel every inch of him… it was happening. And Sherlock seemed to be enjoying it, judging by his enthusiasm and occasional moans.

After a very long time, they both separated just the slightest bit to look at each other. John found that he was quite satisfied seeing Sherlock so disheveled and wild eyed, breathing like he'd been running for an hour or two.

John was completely consumed with a joy that he couldn't really understand. He'd done things like this before—granted, it was with women—and it never made him feel so _alive_. The only conclusion he could come to was that it was because of Sherlock.

He had already decided he had strong feelings for Sherlock. He knew that and would be an idiot to deny it. But he had strong feelings before, for other people, and still it was never like this.

Looking into Sherlock's eyes, which were swimming between blue and green in that moment, John knew.

"I think I love you," he said.

Sherlock froze. It was almost as if he had stopped breathing entirely. He shot up, sitting with his back board straight.

"I… Sorry—" John began to say before Sherlock gathered up is clothes and strode from the room.


	4. Date 2, Part 3

John was so astonished that he wasn't sure what to do. Should he go out and talk to him? He decided against that. Maybe he just needed space.

John had just startled him, that was all. Right? Maybe, but John imagined it was much worse than that.

First, he felt embarrassed. John had experienced rejection—many times from women that decided he liked Sherlock better than them—but this was so much more severe. There were no words, no apology or 'can we still be friends?' To open up and say what you feel and to get completely rejected… his face burned just thinking about it.

Next, he was angry with himself. He should have known not to say that so soon. Sherlock was just starting to open up, and John went and ruined it.

Then he was angry with Sherlock. They'd known each other for this long and he was only just able to say something about what he was feeling? And now, it seemed, he was back to just storming off without a word. The man was impossible to communicate with.

And last, he was just unbelievably hurt. Sherlock was so disgusted by what he had said, what John was certain he felt, that he had to go away from his sight. The feeling was excruciating. What if Sherlock was so upset that he was gone again in the morning? John had just barely gotten him back, and now he might just leave again.

He felt like he couldn't move. His body became rigid and his leg that he used to use a cane for almost throbbed, as if the phantom pain that Sherlock had cured was now back. Part of him wanted to get up and pace, but he couldn't bring himself to, so he stayed in bed just where he was and closed his eyes. The thought of sleep was slightly repugnant, and seemed downright impossible at the moment, but he lay there without moving for so long, it happened.

* * *

John woke up with a yelp. Sherlock had been jumping off the bloody hospital roof again and—_Oh, just a dream_, he thought. Sherlock had completely rejected him, so yes, he was alive. He wiped sweat off his face and controlled his breathing. He checked the clock and it was two thirty in the morning.

"Great," he muttered. He fancied some tea, so he put on his robe and went out into the front room. What he saw, however, was enough to make him forget tea for a moment.

Sherlock was sitting in a chair in the front room, which was normal even at this time, but the look on his face… he looked petrified. John immediately was reminded of their case in Baskerville, when Sherlock had seen 'the hound'. He looked much now like he had then. He was sweating and blinking and twitching and shaking.

_What on earth had gotten him so worked up?_ John thought grumpily. He didn't particularly want to console Sherlock at that moment, but he figured he needed to. He made tea as slowly as he could, just to put it off, and then brought over two cups, setting one on the side table for Sherlock. Then he sat down in the chair across from Sherlock and waited. He would say something eventually. He was bound to.

He couldn't just sit there without talking forever.

Really, nobody could do that…

But apparently Sherlock could.

These were his thoughts when it was almost six in the morning. Sherlock just sat there, having a full out panic attack, for that whole time. John nodded off once or twice, waking up again gasping from another nightmare and seeing Sherlock looking just the same as he had before.

Finally, John couldn't stay silent anymore. "Sherlock, I'm sorry if I upset you."

Sherlock was quiet for long enough that John figured he wasn't going to answer. Then, suddenly, he began to reply… or at least speak. "You keep waking up as if you're in a fright, which means you are having nightmares. You are sitting in this room with me, which means you are concerned. And you keep clenching your fists and shaking your head and clenching your jaw, which means you're very upset." John didn't even bother to respond. Sherlock just had to be a know-it-all all the time, didn't he? "You actually meant it. You actually—I can't be—" and he lapsed into silence again. John audibly grumbled. The man made no sense at all.

Sherlock slowly started to calm down until he was just staring ahead of him. John decided there was no point in trying to say anything, so he went back to his room to try to get some sleep. He was glad he didn't have work to worry about.

* * *

John got out of bed feeling particularly unrested and went into the front room. Sherlock was there, working on his garbage chair.

"This is almost done, you see John?" John ignored him, going to the fridge. "Whatever you're making, make enough for two."

John shut the door again, looking at Sherlock incredulously. "Are you honestly going to pretend that nothing happened?"

"Yes."

"Really? After what I watched most of the night, you've got nothing to say?"

"Nothing. I'll leave the soul searching to people with less important things to think about. Like finishing this chair."

John was so angry, he was about ready to grab that rod all over again. When it had to do with John having hurt feelings, it wasn't important anymore? Of course not.

He promptly walked back into his room and came out again with a suitcase full of clothes. Sherlock didn't even look over until John started picking up various things of his and throwing them into an open box. Then Sherlock looked up, as if he were mildly curious, and his eyes widened.

"What are you doing?" he asked quickly.

"I'm done. This is stupid. I keep telling myself that I don't know why I try, and now I realised that I don't have to try. I'll find another flat mate."

Sherlock stood. "You're _not_ moving out."

"Why would you even care? You can find someone as 'high-functioning' as you that understands why you are incapable of normal human emotions and communication. All you do is bring stress into my life and you don't care an ounce about how I feel and now you pretended to fancy me just to get me to shut—"

Sherlock had come over and stood in front of John. "That isn't true."

"What part of that isn't true?"

"All of it."

"Yeah, okay," John muttered, shouldering him out of the way and grabbing more of his things.

"Stop packing," Sherlock commanded.

"I don't see any point in staying, since you don't want me around—"

"I do want you around!"

John stopped and looked at Sherlock, surprised that his plan was working so quickly. He thought, maybe, threatening to leave would make Sherlock want to talk and it seemed to be working.

"I just don't believe that right now," John said. Sherlock was quiet and stationary for long enough for John to find most of his stuff. Suddenly he was worried that Sherlock would agree, decide it would be best if John just left. Where would he go if that happened?

But when he made for the door, Sherlock stood in front of it. "You can't go."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"I don't want you to go."

"You keep saying that," John said, trying to get past Sherlock again.

"Will you just—just wait a moment," he said, putting his hands on John's shoulders. He started steering him towards his chair, making him sit. "Stay."

"I'm not a dog," muttered John as he rolled his eyes, but didn't try to get up when Sherlock sat across from him.

A minute later, when Sherlock had said nothing, John prompted, "I thought you were going to tell me why you want me around. Or why you had a meltdown last night. Or why you left me in my room after I—I said—well, what I said."

Sherlock started twiddling his thumbs, glancing around the room. "I was upset."

"I saw that."

"It's not really important—" Sherlock was saying, but when John went to stand up again, he quickly said, "It took me a long time to convince myself to go into your room at all." John sat back down once he began talking. "I just—you don't understand—it was—"

He was starting to get a little twitchy again. John took pity on Sherlock as he fumbled and leaned forward and took his hand. Sherlock gripped it tighter than John expected him to. "Then help me to understand."

"I had convinced myself to try," Sherlock said. "I told myself that I could do that much because—because—well it doesn't matter why. But I was figuring it would be simple and it wasn't."

"Why on earth did you think it would be simple? Relationships aren't simple."

"It's always been easy for me. Pretty much everything in my life is easy for me. It's the reason why I do cases in the first place, because I have to think just a little bit harder than usual. But this is something totally different."

It was quiet. "Is it because of what I said?" John finally asked, looking at the floor.

"Yes," Sherlock admitted.

"Just forget I said it then," John said, having a little difficulty sounding sincere. "I was probably just caught in the moment."

"The reason it scared me," Sherlock said, "was because I think I love you too."

John's eyes flashed up to Sherlock. Part of him wanted to jump up and kiss him, but he knew it wasn't the time. Sherlock didn't seem particularly happy about what he had said. "And that frightens you?" John asked.

"Of course it does!" Sherlock yelled, suddenly full of emotion. He jumped up from his chair and started pacing. "For a very long time, as long as I can remember, really, I've been keeping a lock on my emotions. I never wanted to have feelings as a distraction. You know that. But ever since I met you, it's been harder to do. I've been afraid and confused and I've cared enough that it's become a weakness." He stopped walking and leaned over his chair, looking intensely at John. "You are my weakness, John. And the more I care, the more of a weakness you become. I don't want to be that penetrable, but when I'm with you, it's like I've got a giant hole in my fortress and—yes, that scares me. Don't you get it?"

John thought that, for once, he could understand what Sherlock was feeling. Looking at it from his point of view, he could see why that would frighten him. John was used to being vulnerable, but Sherlock wasn't. And the most vulnerable situation someone could be in was probably being naked in a bed while confessing their love.

Finally, John nodded. "Then what do you want to do about it, Sherlock? Should we just—just forget about it then?" The thought of trying to forget about it made John's chest ache, but it seemed to be John's job to put Sherlock first, even if he sometimes just wanted to be selfish.

Sherlock slowly unclasped his hands from the back of his chair and sat down in it. Then he took both of John's hands in his own. "I don't think I can forget it at this point," Sherlock said. "You see, when you're not around, I hate it. I pretend you're there just because it makes me feel better. And when you are here, it's like half of my attention is on what I am doing and the rest is always on you. It's always been like that. And I am pretty sure you would never forgive me if I told you to forget about it."

"Probably," John agreed with a smile. Sherlock smiled too, quirking the side of his lip up just a little the way he often did. "So what _do_ you want to do?"

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John on the cheek. "At some point, I'd like to go on a better date."

"Are you going to have a panic attack again?"

Sherlock chuckled. "I'll try very hard not to."

John reached up and put his hand on Sherlock's face, letting his thumb graze his bottom lip.

"This is quite complicated, love. I don't see why all you average minded people enjoy it so much."

John smiled. "Yes, you're right, Sherlock. It's complicated and it's scary and a whole lot of other uncomfortable things. But that's exactly why you need the other person around. To help you through all those things. The idea is, nothing is as frightening or difficult with that person. Two people together is stronger than one."

"Unless you're me."

John sighed. "Of course, Sherlock. Because you're perfect."

"Well, I don't mean to brag, but—"

"You do mean to brag!" John said, laughing. Then suddenly they both leaned in and kissed.

"Maybe I do mean to brag. A little."

"A lot."

"But," Sherlock continued, as if John had said nothing, "This much is true. If anyone is worth me becoming distracted and emotional… it's you."

John figured that was just about as much flattery as you could get from Sherlock Holmes, so he found himself flattered. "So if we do go on another date, should we consider it the third, or should we just pretend the last one didn't happen?"

"It wasn't that bad," Sherlock said, maybe sounding a little insulted.

John laughed. "No, it wasn't bad at all." They were quiet, just looking at each other. "Honestly, I could be doing anything with you and be happy."

Sherlock didn't smile or anything, but maybe the look on his face softened.

John wasn't sure whether to risk it again, but he decided to anyway. "I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a deep breath, but he didn't move his face away or take his hands out of John's. " I love you too."

"And everything else will make sense over time," John assured him. "For now though, I'm here to help."

Sherlock just barely smiled. "So this means you aren't moving out then?"

John kissed Sherlock, letting it linger as he twined his fingers in Sherlock's unruly hair. "Wouldn't dream of it," he breathed, and he leaned in to kiss him again.


End file.
